Passion's Fury (Viking's Fury Book 3)

by Violetta Rand

  Olvir turned his horse about, hoping to locate Captain Rolf. But in the darkness, it was hard to see far away. “Rolf?” he called. But no one answered.

  “Did you get lost my friend?”

  Someone reached up and yanked Olvir from the saddle. “What are you doing here?”

  Olvir stumbled and fell to his knees. “Who are you?” Then he recognized the bearded giant towering above him, Captain Thorolf.

  *

  Thorolf glared down at the half-man he’d banished from Jarl Roald’s home a short time ago. Filthy traitor—a believer in the White Christ and a man in love with Runa. “State your purpose here or I will squash you with my heel like the insignificant creature you are.”

  Olvir staggered to his feet, brushing the snow from his backside. “Captain Thorolf. Have you sold your services to the temple now?”

  Is that what this weakling thought of him? A simple man-at-arms? “I will ask the questions.”

  “Very well. I am here to seek an audience with the high priest.”

  “Unbelievers are forbidden here.”

  Olvir huffed out a frustrated breath. “I will take my chances with the priest.”

  “Only if I let you pass.”

  “Where is my guard, Rolf?”

  “Stopped by my men a few yards south. I’ve been tracking you for over an hour, Olvir. And if I were any other man, you’d be dead. Speak frankly before I lose patience.”

  “My father is dead. I’ve come to seek counsel.”

  Thorolf knew the pain of losing a parent. The sad news changed his mind about how to deal with Olvir. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  “Don’t be,” Olvir said. “I killed him.”

  Unprepared for his words, Thorolf gave him a sideways look. “Did I misunderstand you?”

  “No. I shot an arrow through my father’s eye in front of his captains and guests. I am surprised word hasn’t reached here already. I’ve come to face the council for my crime.”

  The thought of a son slaying his own sire brought back many painful memories. Thorolf grabbed a fistful of Olvir’s tunic and gave him a shake. “Why have you done this?”

  Limp in his grasp, Olvir remained silent.

  Thorolf shoved him away, disgusted by his calm demeanor. “I will escort you to the high priest then. Don’t expect mercy. There’s been too much bloodshed in these parts lately. The high priest has had his fill of violence. As have I.” He searched Olvir’s face for any signs of regret, finding none.

  “It’s truth you seek? I understand completely, Captain. Why would a man kill his own father? Jarl Otkel was cruel. He beat my mother and me. Thankfully, she died a long time ago, escaping his hatred. Unfortunately, I didn’t.”

  There were other ways to deal with his father. Banishment. Challenging him for control of the jarldom. Not murder. “Save your words for the priest. You wouldn’t like my ruling.”

  Olvir frowned. “Captain Thorolf, for now, I am a jarl. I expect you to show me the courtesy and respect due my title.”

  Thorolf made a show of looking surprised. “Things have changed drastically for me as well, Jarl Olvir. I, too, have gained a title. You will address me as Prince Thorolf. Now get on your horse. Until the high priest says otherwise, I am holding you as a prisoner. Murderers cannot be permitted to roam free in the northlands.”

  Olvir did as he commanded, climbing into the saddle and surrendering the reins. Thorolf rode in the direction of the temple, disappointed he hadn’t found a trace of Jarl Skrymir on his typical evening rounds, but pleased he’d captured a romantic rival of his future wife.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Thorolf rose from his chair out of respect for the high priest and the judges, as did all the spectators in the council chamber. Olvir and his errant captain were in chains, surrounded by four temple guards, at the center of the room. The hearing could not be delayed with Thorolf’s wedding only two days out.

  Once the high priest took a seat, a man in black robes pounded the end of his walking staff on the stone floor to gain the attention of the crowd. “We are gathered to hear testimony against Olvir and Captain Rolf, rebels and murderers of the honorable Jarl Otkel from the Trondelag. Let all men present serve as witnesses to what is shared. And may the gods provide guidance and clarity to the judges, that the accused are dealt with fairly and swiftly, so help me Odin.”

  “So help us Odin,” the throng repeated, then sat back down.

  “Olvir, stand and be recognized,” the high priest said.

  He did.

  “I heard your testimony in my chamber a couple nights ago when you were arrested by Prince Thorolf on your way to the temple.”

  “Aye.”

  “Do you still stand by what you said?”

  “I do.”

  “And you are prepared to accept whatever this council rules, even if it means forfeiting your life?”

  “I will tell you what I have shared with other men. I am not afraid to die. This world is a better place without my father in it. He was an arrogant and dangerous man. Prone to fits of rage and drunkenness.”

  “You have described better than half the men in Scandinavia,” one of the judges commented.

  The crowd laughed.

  “I care little for what happens in other homes, Sir,” Olvir stated, looking at the judge. “Each man is responsible for his own steading and family. I can only tell you what happened to me and my beloved mother. Her back was as scarred as mine. My sire was free with the whip and fist. Ask any of his captains, including Rolf, who has committed no crime. I beg you to free him from these chains.” Olvir held up his hands, the irons clinking together as he shifted. “I killed my father without premeditation. No one knew what I was doing. And Captain Rolf is the most celebrated soldier in my father’s personal guard.”

  “Why did he travel with you?” the high priest asked.

  “To convince me to return home.”

  The priest turned to Rolf. “Does this not make you guilty? Why would you try to protect the man that cut down your master?”

  Rolf cleared his throat and stood. “Can a Christian find true justice in this court? You’ll judge him for his faith, not his alleged crime.”

  “Alleged?” another council member asked. “The man has confessed. There’s innocent blood on his hands. That is irrefutable.”

  “Is it?” Rolf shook his head. “See for yourself then. Direct one of these guards to remove Olvir’s tunic.”

  The judges whispered amongst themselves, the one closest to the high priest leaned close to him.

  “Very well, Captain,” the priest said. “Donvar, cut this man’s sark open.”

  The guard nodded, then spun Olvir around, using a long knife to bear his back. As soon as the scars were visible, the judges gasped in shock. Even Thorolf couldn’t resist looking. He moved closer, eyeing the ugly, raised scars with disgust. It reminded him of a map, all the deep lines crisscrossing over his spine, from the base of his neck to Olvir’s hips. The man hadn’t exaggerated. The pain he must have suffered as a boy made Thorolf grit his teeth. What humiliation and shame he must have felt facing his maniacal father every day. No wonder he accepted a post in Northumbria under the guise of training as a soldier. Twas his only escape.

  “The council is satisfied, Olvir. You may sit,” the high priest directed him, his tone softer.

  “Now that you’ve seen the evidence first-hand, milord, spare Olvir’s life. He’s suffered enough.”

  The high priest raised his hand. “Captain Rolf, your plea doesn’t fall on deaf ears. I understand your way of thinking more than you know. Donvar, free the captain.”

  It pleased Thorolf to see the truth respected in this place. He gazed about the lofty room, at the high ceilings and stone walls. A guilty man would be easily intimidated. A statue of Tyr, the god of law and justice, stood at the forefront of the chamber, very near the council’s high table. Black banners with single runic symbols stitched on them decorated the walls. Thorolf could d
ecipher most of them, justice, truth, honor, wisdom, bravery, servitude… However, there were a few he didn’t recognize.

  “What is your earliest memory of your father hitting you, Olvir?” the high priest queried.

  “Sometimes my memory fails me, sir,” Olvir admitted. “The days and weeks have blended together. But I believe I was a boy of four seasons, sitting at the feast table with my father. Instead of eating, I threw a skin ball one of the captains had given me across the room. It landed in a dignitary’s bowl of stew. My sire snatched me up and slapped my face repeatedly. Even our honored guest begged for leniency, but my father refused. He beat me unconscious and tossed me on the floor.”

  The high priest’s face twisted in disbelief.

  “He speaks honestly,” Rolf said. “I was there.”

  The spectators couldn’t remain silent any longer—Olvir was slowly winning their support.

  “And your mother?” the priest asked. “Did she try to protect you? How did your father deal with her?”

  “He never bruised her face,” Olvir pointed out. “She was very pretty and my father relied on her gentle nature to sooth the fiercest of men when treaties or other business brought visitors to our steading. But her back and thighs were marred and bloody more times than I can count. Our female thralls often whispered about it, wept for her, complained about how rough my father was with her in the bedchamber.”

  “He raped her?” a council member asked.

  “Aye. Many times.”

  Again, the council members whispered to each other.

  “Why didn’t you stay in Northumbria? Prince Ivarr asked you to. Didn’t you find purpose there? Peace?” the high priest pressed.

  “My father expected me to return. Like a fool, I hoped to please him with my accomplishments, to finally give him a reason to be proud of his only son.”

  “There is no reason to hear more,” a spectator called out. “Free this man.”

  “Any father who beats an innocent babe deserves to die,” another said.

  “Free Olvir.” One-by-one, men stood and raised their fists in protest of the council continuing with the hearing.

  The man in the black robes beat the floor with his staff again. “Silence, or the guards will clear the chamber.”

  “Prince Thorolf,” the high priest said. “You encountered Olvir on the road to the temple. I would hear your opinion in this matter.”

  Thorolf noted the faces of the six judges at the high table. Everyone was expected to remain impartial when sitting in judgement of another man. But Thorolf knew how hard that could be. Especially when ruling on a case involving a mortal enemy to the old gods—a Christian convert born in Norway.

  “I will give it.” Thorolf approached the high table. “Olvir spared no detail. He came here of his own free will, acknowledging the risk he took subjecting himself to a council of men who worship Allfather. At first, I too hated the man for slaughtering his sire. My own story kept me from seeing the evidence before me. Nothing could justify him murdering his father. Nothing. But after hearing his testimony again and affirming the disfiguring scars on his body, I am certain mercy is called for in this case.” He drifted toward Olvir. “You loved your father?”

  “Aye.”

  “How do you feel now? Would you reconsider what you did if given a chance?”

  “I’d give my right eye for a second chance with him.”

  “Where would you go if this council sets you free, Olvir?”

  “Back to the Trondelag to repair what damage has been done.”

  “And if your father’s men are unwilling to serve you, to forgive, what will you do?”

  “I will choose an heir from among my kinsmen, appoint him as the new jarl, and then leave Norway behind forever.”

  “What if one of your sire’s captains kills you?”

  Olvir’s shoulders sagged. “I’d ask this council to take no action against him. Even if I am exonerated, I must live with my sin forever.”

  “Sin?” the high priest said. “Our gods endowed this council with the right to judge you. If found innocent, Olvir, there is no emotional burden to carry.”

  “By the laws of this land, perhaps. But a different law governs my heart.” He raised his head. “It is a hard thing to explain to a man who doesn’t share my faith. My guilt is the first step toward gaining forgiveness from my God.”

  “That is for you to decide,” the high priest said. “Before we stepped into this chamber, I directed the council members to set aside any prejudice against your religion. Because you came here without being summoned, for braving the ridicule you might be subjected to on ground consecrated to Odin, because your back has been scarred by your father’s rage, and your heart forever broken by the loss of your mother, I find no fault in you, Jarl Olvir of the Trondelag. But, I alone cannot choose.” The high priest stood. “And I shall not remain here, for if these men condemn you, I will overturn their ruling.”

  The high priest exited the chamber, followed by several priests who attended him.

  The room fell silent for several long moments. Thorolf wondered who would speak first. He gazed at the council, then at Olvir, a man he’d severely misjudged. Olvir possessed a face like an open scroll. All his emotions showed in his eyes. Something Thorolf had worked diligently to overcome. The more a man could read in your eyes, the more dangerous it was. But for Olvir, under these circumstances, it was likely the one thing that would save him.

  “The facts surrounding this case are highly unusual,” one of the judges said. “And in no way, if we decide in your favor, Olvir, should it encourage other sons to murder their sires.”

  “Aye,” Olvir agreed.

  The members withdrew from the chamber then, calling for a brief reprieve.

  “I cannot thank you enough for speaking on my behalf, Prince Thorolf,” Olvir addressed him.

  “Do not think I’ve forgotten your actions from the night at Jarl Roald’s feast. You are a Christian, still my enemy. But truth must always prevail. And no child should ever face the violence and devastation you did.”

  Olvir’s eyes were wet with tears. This time, Thorolf saw the pain and regret in them he’d sought out before. “I will remember your fairness, whether we are friends or enemies.”

  “A day will come when you challenge the old ways, Olvir. That much has been foreseen by the oracles and spaewives who give counsel to Norway’s kings and chieftains. On that day, I will seek you out first, my sword against yours. My life or yours, so help me Odin.”

  Olvir swallowed hard, then spoke. “Until that time, Prince Thorolf, I will consider you an ally.”

  Just as Thorolf intended to reply, the council members returned. Thorolf gave Olvir a last look, then returned to his seat across the room.

  “Olvir, son of Otkel, we find you not guilty of the crime of murder. You will be set free and must leave this holy place, along with your captain, never to return, unless you choose to offer yourself to Odin again.”

  After the judge had spoken, Olvir dropped to his knees and bowed his head. Thorolf knew he was praying to the White Christ, the enemy God he loathed. A guard lifted Olvir to his feet and removed his wrist and ankle irons.

  “Go, Jarl Olvir,” the judge said.

  Rolf followed his jarl out of the room, his hand never leaving the hilt of his sword.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “Why I am expected to stay indoors until the eve of my wedding,” Runa complained to her hostesses. She’d been temporarily moved to the house where the temple maidens lived. “I am unaccustomed to this isolation.”

  “Try to accept it,” Haldana, the eldest of the maidens, urged. “You are to be crowned a queen. The high priest cannot risk your life while under his care. Escorts will take you to the great hall each night for the eventide meal. Do we lack any of the comforts you are used to?”

  Runa looked about the expansive solar where the women lounged. There were comfortable couches and padded chairs, tables filled with brig
ht cloth to sew, boxes of jewelry and hair adornments, combs and pins, gowns to wear, and even a collection of scrolls with stories honoring the gods. In the far corner, two tubs were available to soak in, an assortment of oils and perfumed soaps to enjoy.

  The dream of becoming a temple maiden had been swiftly ended the moment she entered this comfortable prison. The women here were coddled and protected, spoiled with every luxury, but their freedom forever gone. Like prized pets, they lived according to the high priest’s will. Surrounded by armed guards on the outside, put on display during feasts and holidays, hidden away the rest of the time.

  “Would it help if I showed you what the high priest has selected as your wedding gown?” Haldana asked.

  “It is here already?”

  “Aye. Sent over yesterday.”

  “Why does he keep a collection of women’s garments in his storerooms?”

  The maids chuckled.

  “Our benefactors pay tribute to the temple in many ways. Silk and other rare treasures are perfectly acceptable. I am sure you will find it exquisite, Lady Runa.”

  Haldana snapped her fingers and two younger girls scurried from the chamber. “There are other gifts to enjoy, too.”

  Knowing there was nothing she could do to escape the confines of the house, Runa sat down on one of the couches, hoping she’d see Thorolf today—before the nighttime meal. Everything he’d shared with her still weighed heavy on her conscience. They weren’t given much time alone. Every precaution had to be taken to ensure that their wedding was conducted under the strictest of traditions.

  The high priest would give no one a chance to challenge the legitimacy of her and Thorolf’s union. Especially her brother.